


I Don't Want Anybody Else

by gutsforgarters



Series: come on, now, try and understand / the way i feel when i’m in your hands [3]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Masturbation, Older Man/Younger Woman, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 16:27:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20678405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutsforgarters/pseuds/gutsforgarters
Summary: So, Daryl let Beth borrow his jacket and then refused it when she tried to give it back to him. And since it isn't going anywhere, she might as well make the most of it.





	I Don't Want Anybody Else

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kattyshack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/gifts).
  * Inspired by [cross my heart, pretty darlin’, over you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20227051) by [kattyshack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack). 

> Inspired by [Chapter 6](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20227051/chapters/48911090) of Maj's Bethyl classic in the making. You should definitely be reading that instead of this, but if you _must_ read this, at least go and read that first. 
> 
> Title from the Divinyls song. You know the one.

Daryl dropped Beth off hours ago, but she still hasn’t recovered from that bike ride. It’s like somebody cut into her legs with a scalpel and replaced her bones with jello molds, and that’s why she went to bed right after dinner; she was afraid that she’d fall flat on her butt and prove Maggie right if she didn’t.

Well. That’s not the only reason, if she’s honest.

Because she can still feel the bike, is the thing, almost as if she never climbed off of it. She can still feel its engine rumbling in the hollow of her chest, in the backs of her teeth.

In the space between her legs.

Beth cups her abdomen, beneath her tank top but above her waistband like it’s a territorial line she’s not quite ready to cross. She draped Daryl’s old jacket over her headboard, and she can see it in her periphery, dark and creased like the folded wings of a bat at rest. That jacket earned her a raised eyebrow from Maggie, but she seemed satisfied enough when Beth mumbled something about Daryl wanting to get rid of the thing, anyway, about how it didn’t fit him anymore and that it was probably bound for Good Will or the dumpster if Beth didn’t take it off his hands.

And it _wouldn’t _fit him, would it? He’s too big, too broad; if he tried to pull it on over his heavy shoulders, he’d probably bust the seams.

Beth thinks about some _other_ things that Daryl could stretch to bursting, and a shiver rushes down her spine on furtive feet, the skin beneath her palm prickling with goosebumps. She doesn’t inch her hand lower, not yet, but she_ does_ grab Daryl’s jacket and pulls it across her body, burying her nose in the cracked collar. Daryl hasn’t worn it in decades, she’s sure, not since he was as young as her and probably just as gangly, but it still smells a little bit like him if only because it’s been occupying his space for so long. Beth inhales through her mouth, inhales _deep_ like a junkie taking a hit, and the wet itch between her legs flares into an ache.

She hates the stink of tobacco, but even she has to admit that the sour burn isn’t so bad when it’s layered over the smell of Daryl’s skin like the top notes of some heady cologne.

Beth fumbles at the jacket, unfolding it and draping it across her torso like a blanket. She draws up her legs so her actual blankets sag between her crooked knees like the roof of a tent, and then she curls one hand in the jacket’s collar and slips the other beneath her panties’ waistband. Just her panties’. She took her pajama bottoms off before getting into bed.

She’s unsurprised to find herself wetter than she usually is when she starts off; after all, she’s been slick since she climbed onto that bike with Daryl and felt the engine vibrating against her clit like a sex toy. She took a shower before she went to bed, ran a warm washcloth between her legs, but she’s already so sticky it’s like she never bathed at all. So sticky, even, that she can’t help but wonder if Daryl smelled it on her, if he felt her shifting behind him as she sought out what meager friction she could get from the pinch of her inseam. God, she’s surprised she didn’t soak right through her pants and onto the bike’s seat, and just_ thinking _about that—about Daryl finding a drying wet spot on the leather and _knowing_ that it came out of Beth’s body—is enough to make her whimper like a kicked dog.

Of course, she didn’t _actually_ get the seat wet. She knows she didn’t. But it’s a fun fantasy to have, to tease out and expand upon.

Not as fun, she’s got to admit, as her oldest fantasy, the one where Daryl climbs through her unlocked window and steals into her bed. The one where he catches her touching herself and runs his tongue over her sticky fingers like he’s lapping up a treat. The one where he asks her what she’s thinking about, if she’s thinking about _him._

God, but she is. Only ever about him.

He’s with her right now; she can feel him, can feel the jacket she’s got draped over her chest and belly filling out around a heavy body, seams popping, faux leather creaking like plastic. So big, so heavy, crushing the air out of her lungs and replacing it with the slow choking crawl of tobacco smoke. She’s kissed his cheek, so she knows what his scruff feels like and can extrapolate from there, can imagine the way it would cut into her face so vividly that she half expects she’ll see beard burn on her skin when she gets up to brush her teeth in the morning. His mouth on her mouth, dragging kisses off her lips and rolling them onto his tongue, swallowing them like pieces of candy. His hands dwarfing her hands, binding her wrists to the mattress so she can’t crawl away from him.

As if she’d want to. As if she wants anything but to crawl_ to_ him.

Her clit gives a keening little throb, and Beth finally grants it the attention it’s been begging for, skimming back the hood and grinding her longest finger against it. She buries another whimper in the collar of Daryl’s jacket, pretends she’s stifling it against the cup of his palm while he shushes her.

_Y’gotta be quiet, girl. Gotta be quiet for me. Gotta be good. S’what you want, ain’t it? To be my good girl. _

_Oh, God. _Another noise swells in Beth’s throat, half moan, half laughter, when she thinks about Daryl Dixon calling her a _good girl_ and inadvertently sucker punching her in the clit. He has no idea. No idea what he does to her. No idea what he _could_ do to her, if he only asked.

_You gonna be a good girl, Beth? Gonna let me bend you over my fuckin’ bike? Gonna let me lick your pussy? Huh? _

_Pussy_. Beth’s never liked that word; men use it to demean each other, and they use _cunt _to demean women. _Vagina_ and _vulva _aren’t laden down with that kind of baggage, but they’re also too clinical to be sexy. The thing is, though. If Daryl said_ pussy_ and_ cunt_ to her. If he shaped the words against her jaw. If he talked about her pussy and what he wanted to do with it, _to_ it, Beth just might come from the shivery shock of that alone. _Just. Might._

_Cunt_, Beth thinks, _I want him to touch my _cunt. She drags two fingers through the mess between her lips, the mess that’s dripping like syrup out of her _cunt_, and uses it to slick up her clit, rolling it around like a fat bead that’s gotten trapped in the membranous folds of her flesh.

They’re not in her bed anymore. No, they’re straddling his bike, parked somewhere deep in the woods where nobody will ever find them. _She’s _in front now, and it’s _him_ that’s hugging _her _from behind. He told her to wear pants but she’s wearing a skirt, and it’s hiked up around her waist, folded out of the way so he can cup her cunt in his wide hand and squeeze more slick out of her like he’s pulping a ripe peach for juice.

And Beth’s not sure if she’s being realistic here, because he’s always so quiet, to the point that every word she manages to coax out of him feels like a hard-won victory, but this is her fantasy so screw realism anyway. Besides, she thinks she could draw it out of him, if she tried hard enough. If it was just the two of them, like this. If he knew that it made her happy, if he knew it revved her like a boot on a gas pedal. If he knew even half of what his voice does to her.

So, he’s talking. He’s saying, _Toldja to put some fuckin’ pants on, didn’t I, girl? Wind’s gonna rip the damn skin off your legs, you don’t change outta this fuckin’ thing. Bet you put it on jus’ to fuck with me, didn’t you? Thought you was my good girl, but here y’are, bein’ bad. Hell’m I gonna do with you now? _

She’s got some ideas. She says so, and he shoves her over with a heavy hand between her shoulder blades, stomach sandwiched flat against the seat, ass sticking out like an invitation. An invitation he _takes_, giving it a hard smack that makes her jolt and yelp.

_Watch your filthy fuckin’ mouth,_ he growls, scolding her some more even as he rubs away the sting. _Jus’ look at you, makin’ a goddamn mess all over my bike._ _How you gonna make it up to me, huh? G’on, girl, tell me. _

_Anything, _she croaks, phantom fingers clinging to the bike’s handlebars while her real fingers speed up on her tingling clit. _Anything you want, Daryl, I’ll do anything, God—_

_Don’t go tellin’ me that, girl. _He digs his hard thumbs into her ass cheeks, pulls them apart to get a better look at her, at the gaping lips of her wet cunt. _Gonna regret it if you do. _

_Never_, she says, and that one word twists in her lungs like a knife. The bike’s engine rumbles through the seat and quakes in her clit, coaxing out more slick that gets smeared all over the leather like spilled perfume. _Not with you, not if it’s you._

Her waistband bites into her cramping wrist, and she swears and wriggles and wrestles her panties down her legs onehanded, kicks them off, kicks off the covers, notches her heels against her raised backside and spreads her legs as far as they’ll go. Far enough apart to fit Daryl’s body between them, if only barely. If he were actually here, he’d overflow the space between her thighs, too much for her to take.

She’d take him anyway. Every goddamn inch. She’d fucking _take it._

_C’mon, Daryl, I want it, c’mon, I’m good, I’ll be good, just, please. _

_Girl,_ says the Daryl in her head. He sounds every bit as helpless as she does, and thank God for it. _Girl, you’re gonna kill me._

_Nah,_ she whispers, pressing a smile into her tensed bicep. _We can’t do this if you’re dead. _

That earns her another smack on the ass, just like she knew it would, and the fleshy impact’s still ringing in her ears like the echo of a gunshot when Daryl unclips his belt and yanks open his zipper. He hikes up her hips, and she clings to the handlebars, toes just barely grazing the ground now, and his dick, his_ dick_ is sliding through the wet cleft of her cunt, cockhead tapping her clit. _Thick_, he’s so goddamn thick, thick like his fingers and his arms and the sound of her name in his mouth, and he’s.

He’s in her. He’s_ in_ her, hollowing her out, stretching her like a rubber band looped around spread fingers, fucking the breath out of her lungs while his bike rumbles against her clit like a vibrator on wheels. And Beth’s sweating, thrashing, rubbing herself raw in frustration while the orgasm she’s building towards peaks and fades and peaks again, boiling like water on the stove, so goddamn close that she can feel it like a metal bit between her chomping teeth. If she could just—fuck—God, _Daryl_—

_C’mon, that’s my girl. That’s my good girl. _

Beth’s fingers grind against her clit while her other hand tangles itself in her pillowcase, teeth sinking into the collar of Daryl’s jacket as she jerks through her orgasm, cunt spasming and dripping come onto her sheets. She’s throbbing all over, from her ears to her clit to the clutching funnel of her pussy, throbbing like a fresh bruise, Daryl’s voice so real in her ears it’s like he’s actually here, after all.

Her body bows up like somebody just shocked her with a defibrillator, and then she’s melting into the mattress, into a small puddle of come, pruned fingertips slipping through the puffy folds of her cunt just because she likes to luxuriate in the feel of her own slick. God. God, that was good.

High off endorphins, Beth hums, stretches—and goes stock still when the jacket’s sleeve flops against her wrist like a hand seeking out attention. She forgot it was there.

_Oh, Jesus_. She masturbated with Daryl’s jacket spread out on top of her. It probably_ smells_ like her now, like her _come_. What if—what if she wore it around Daryl and _he_ smelled it, just a trace of it, just enough to _wonder_—

Beth rolls onto her side, jacket bundled up tight in her arms like a lover. It still smells like Daryl, but now it also smells a little bit like _her_.

She could wash the smell off, she supposes. Maybe she will.

But maybe she won’t.


End file.
